


What do you need?

by TheBritishBourbon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Doctor John, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poor Sherlock, brotherly mycroft, the beginning of jonhlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5211836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBritishBourbon/pseuds/TheBritishBourbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thoughts in Sherlock's head get too much for him, and John has to find out how to help him</p>
            </blockquote>





	What do you need?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, long time no see! I haven't written anything in a while, but I have a new laptop now so that will making writing a lot easier so hopefully i'll be writing more! this is something I discovered i'd started ages ago, so if it doesn't flow right that's cause I've just tried to pick the pieces together! this is based on a couple of other fanfictions I've read which deal with Sherlock having too much to deal with in his head at times. It's not medically correct in any way... I Just made it up! I would mention the fanfictions I read but I can't remembered what they were called!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

It was blustery outside to say the least; London was in the thralls of a very bad bout of British Weather, and John Watson had just about had enough. After the end of a long and tiring case, John would have liked nothing better than to sit in his armchair in front of the fire with a nice cup of tea and a large serving of crumpets. The problem with that however was they had absolutely no food in their kitchen anywhere. And grudgingly, not wanting to steal anymore food off Mrs Hudson and since Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom with a slam of the door; John had gone to the supermarket. Now he had returned, wind beaten and cold, feeling thoroughly agitated.

Sherlock was nowhere in sight, and so John guessed he was still in his room. He placed the shopping on the kitchen table, pushing some of Sherlock’s science equipment out of the way. All was silent from Sherlock’s room, and so John guessed he was probably having his post-case crash. It had been a taxing one, and Sherlock had not eaten or slept for a few days. John made a mental note to bring him some food (or, more likely, tell him to get his bloody own).

He had just finished putting away his shopping when Mrs Hudson appeared carrying two cups of tea.

“For you and Sherlock.”

John smiled at her. “Thanks, Mrs Hudson, you’re a star.” She giggled a little at his endearing name calling.

“Care to join me for some crumpets, Mrs Hudson?” John asked, wanting to return the favour. Mrs Hudson smiled.

“That’s lovely dear, but I really should-” Whatever she was about to say however was halted by a loud banging coming from Sherlock’s room. Both Mrs Hudson and John both jumped and Mrs Hudson asked, “What was that?”

John just frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe I should-” Another loud bang came. Mrs Hudson and John shared a look before they both rushed to Sherlock’s room.

“Sherlock?” John asked, knocking on the door. There was no answer, and so John tried again. Still no answer. “Sherlock I’m coming in.” John called, and with a twist of the handle, opened the door.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, head in hands, and trembling slightly. The lamp lay on the floor, the shade detached from the stand, and the bedside table was also in a fashion of disarray, one of its legs broken off and lying scattered. John didn’t quite know what to make of it. Sherlock got bored and this always made him grumpy and prone to vandalising things (walls especially), but this was different. John had never seen Sherlock look so….uncomposed before. This was worrying.

“Sherlock? Care to explain what’s going on?” He asked, still standing in the doorway with a confused Mrs Hudson behind him. Sherlock looked up at John then, and there was a despair there that John had never seen before.

“Call Mycroft.”

“What?”

“Call Mycroft now.” He paused, his voice rough. “Please.”

John frowned, but pulled his phone out of his pocket never the less. “All right…..”

John didn’t expect Mycroft to pick up the phone so soon. He stepped into the kitchen while Mrs Hudson went to sort out Sherlock’s furniture. Said man was still in the same position, breathing heavily, eyes scrunched up. ‘is this a migraine?’ John thought.

“John, what can I do for you?”

“Mycroft, hi. It’s ermm Sherlock he’s behaving…strangely.”

John heard Mycroft huff, “When isn’t he?”

John ignored his joke. “No, seriously Mycroft I’ve never seen his so…agitated.”

Mycroft took a breath in before replying, “I see. Has he broken anything yet?”

John hesitated, “Yes, the lamp and a table…..Mycroft, do you know what this is?”

“Hmm, yes, I believe I do... Sherlock had a lot of trouble with this as a child, but these…shall we call them attacks? These are only rare these days, hence why it is only now, when you have already known him for over a year, that you are facing one.”

“Alright, Mycroft, would you just tell me what’s going on.”

“With a brain like his, it is very difficult for Sherlock to relax. His brain is working so fast that sometimes he cannot stop it from gathering information, doing what it does best. It goes into overdrive until he collapses. You need to stop it, John.”

John took a mental step-back. He had never thought that sometimes, just sometimes, Sherlock’s thoughts and that massive brain of his got too much to handle at times. Well, the idiot sometimes acted like such a prick no one would imagine he could ever seem…vulnerable to attack?

“How do I do that?” John asked, in reply to Mycroft’s question.

“To begin, remove all light sources: turn off the lights, close the curtains and so on. It works in almost the same way as a migraine, John. I assume as a doctor you know what those are.”

“Yes, thank you Mycroft I do.” John replied through gritted teeth. He could not be concentrating on feeling insulted by Mycroft at this moment, he just needed to focus on Sherlock. “Okay, then what?”

“Then, and you must make sure you speak in dulcet tones, any sharp, loud speech will cause more discomfort, then you must ask Sherlock how bad the pain is on a scale of one to ten with ten being the worst.”

“Okay.” John peered into the doorway of Sherlock’s room. Mrs Hudson was trying, as quietly as possible, to stabilise the table while Sherlock was curled up in a ball on the bed, groaning softly. Mrs Hudson shot him a glance of pity before turning to John, looking to him for help. He signalled to her to close the curtains and turn off the lights as well as he could.

“John? Are you still there?” came Mycroft’s voice from the phone.

“What? Sorry, yes.” John replied, turning away for a moment.

“If he rates the pain between one and five, simply get him a glass of water and make sure he is under a duvet or blanket. The extra pressure from the covering will make him feel grounded, and hopefully stem the stream of thoughts. But, if Sherlock rates the pain between six and ten it is best to-”

Mycroft broke off then, and John frowned, wondering why.

“Mycroft?” he prompted.

A discreet cough came from the other end of the line, and John could almost see Mycroft straightening his tie and running a hand over his hair.

“If the pain is rated thus, John, it is best that Sherlock be under a duvet or blanket, and that you must be there with him.”

“What?” John couldn’t help but ask.

Mycroft coughed again. “I have come to the conclusion, over the years, that when Sherlock gets as bad as he seems to be now, the best thing to do is procure a covering, cover both of you with it and make sure your presence is calming…”

John nodded, thinking hard. He understood what Mycroft was getting at, but he needed confirmation of what exactly to do. The last thing he wanted to happen was for Sherlock to get worse because of his presence.

“And then what?” He asked.

“Well,” Mycroft continued with obvious discomfort, “Sherlock used to like having his hair stroked.

John could not help the smirk. Of course he did. Of course the self-proclaimed sociopath Sherlock Holmes liked having his hair stroked.

“Right. Is that all?”

“I believe so. Just make sure your presence is comforting and hopefully he will fall asleep. It should work, John, my brother trusts you, I think. He’s trusted you like he’s never trusted anyone before, if I may be so melodramatic.”

John didn’t quite know what to say, confused and, quite inappropriately, amused. “Right…well, I’ll text you when he’s okay. Thanks, Mycroft, this was a real help…I never knew you could be so…caring.” He added after a moment, daringly.

There was a long pause before John heard a sigh. “Well, he is my little brother, John. I had to care for him some of the time, even if I didn’t want to.” He muttered the last part of his sentence.

John made a silent ‘ah’ and nodded, seeing right through the man. Of course Mycroft would have to had care for Sherlock when they were younger, two geniuses seeing things others could not…perhaps Mycroft would have known how horrible having all that knowledge could be and wanted to protect Sherlock from the repercussions as best as he could. But what did John know? Mycroft was as enigmatic as they came.

“Goodbye, John. Do send Sherlock my regards.”

“Right. Bye, Mycroft, and thanks again.”

The line was dead before John had even finished and the doctor sighed, preparing himself for what he needed to do. He would do, make no mistake about that, if that’s what it took to take away Sherlock’s pain, but there was a voice in his head he could not ignore, which sounded suspiciously like Sally Donovan. It was taunting him with the phrase ‘people will talk’, and how this was a side of their friendship that had never been discussed or even prodded at with a fifty-foot pole.

‘Shut up!’ John told them. This was Sherlock for god’s sake, the man needed him, or according Mycroft he did. Sherlock had never directly told John that he needed him, but John had a feeling that not only had Sherlock saved him from a lonely and meaningless life, but he himself had saved Sherlock from a life of loneliness too. If Sherlock needed anything to make him feel better, even if that was the comfort of someone else near him, then John would help him. It was almost a repayment to the great man who had given John new hope, and who obviously had a difficult time understanding his emotions. John would help him be at peace, if only for a while. Before that great big mind of his started working at full pelt once more.

A loud groan from the other room set John into action. He quickly filled a glass with water in the kitchen before heading to Sherlock’s bedroom.

* * *

 

All the curtains had been drawn and the lights turned off so that only a dim, bland light came through the gaps in the curtains. John nodded his thanks to Mrs Hudson who, after one more sympathetic glance in Sherlock’s direction, left the room, closing the door behind her.

John turned to the man lying on the bed and saw that Sherlock had covered his head with both arms, his legs curled up to his chest. A pang of pity shot through John, but he supressed it before it could overwhelm him into doing something silly. The last thing Sherlock needed was pity.

Placing both the glass of water and his mobile quietly on the bedside table John carefully eased himself onto the bed, facing Sherlock’s back, and tentatively touched the detective’s shoulder. His shirt was slightly damp with sweat.

“Sherlock?” He asked as quietly as he could. “Tell me quickly, on a scale of one to ten how is the pain?”

A groan was the reply, before Sherlock managed to compose himself enough to answer. “Nine.” He whispered, his voice gravelly.

John nodded before proceeding. “You need to get under the duvet, come on…”

Sherlock cried out with every jostling movement but eventually John had them both under the duvet, this time Sherlock was facing him, although his face was hidden under his arms and his ragged curls. John’s hand came back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sherlock?” he questioned, more out of worry than necessity. The detective groaned again and his eyebrows screwed up.

“John?” It was posed as a question.

“I’m here.”

“My head…it…help me.” Sherlock’s tone was so pained and pleading that this time John could not help the flood of pity that went through him.

“What do you need?” He asked, wishing he knew exactly what to do already, but he didn’t want to do anything without checking with Sherlock first. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“….You.” came the reply, and suddenly John knew exactly what to do.

Swiftly but carefully John rearranged them so that Sherlock was laying against his chest, his face still covered by his arms. John positioned him so that Sherlock could hear, and feel, his heartbeat through his shirt.

“Just focus on my heartbeat, Sherlock. That’s all you need to focus on.” Carefully he brought the duvet up so it covered both of their heads, shrouding them in darkness and a soft confinement. Sherlock was still breathing raggedly, and could feel his facial muscles were still screwed up and tense.

“Shhh…” he murmured, bring a hand up to stroke Sherlock’s hair. All boundaries and paranoid thoughts about what people who, in retrospect didn’t matter, would think went out the window with John’s desperate need to protect Sherlock from harm. “Just listen to my heartbeat…”

Eventually, after about fifteen minutes later, Sherlock began to relax, his face relaxing and his hands, which had been grasping John’s shirt, went lax as he succumbed to sleep. Finally.

“Shh…” John repeated. As soon as he was absolutely sure Sherlock was in a deep sleep he reached a hand out from their duvet cocoon and grabbed his mobile. Making sure the glare of the screen didn’t disturb Sherlock he quickly sent a text off to Mycroft, before settling down into the sheets himself, the warmth of Sherlock’s body sending him into a pleasant slumber.

The text to Mycroft read: ‘Sherlock will be fine. You’re right, he does trust me.’

Little did John know that Mycroft would read his text with a smile on his face, grateful that his little brother had someone to rely on. Someone to call a friend. And that straight after Mycroft would screw his face up and groan ‘sentiment’, before wondering off in the direction of the kitchen in search of something to eat, preferably cake.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! please leave a review!
> 
> TheBritishBourbon x


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